


Laurels

by drainoctane



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Force-Feeding, Gore, Horror, Other, Slime, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:17:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drainoctane/pseuds/drainoctane
Summary: Aldrich panted through the Dark Sun’s throat.  The dead god’s body slumped back in a throne in the bowels of the Cathedral, with Aldrich’s own mass joining it at the waist and trailing across the floor, weaving in and out of a throng of waiting faithful, littered with yet-undigested bones. As his his followers melted out of the shadows to welcome their lord with awe and trepidation, Aldrich settled into a spacious hall already slick with temporarily detached slime-flesh, and spoke slowly to his reverers.  “Bring forth your sacrifices to me.”





	Laurels

**Author's Note:**

> Here, more DS3 stuff, in response to anon’s prompt. Aldrich, after ruining the Ashen One’s day, deals with the backlog of sacrifices his dear, gross worshippers have accumulated during his visit to Anor Londo. 
> 
> Warnings for forcefeeding, willing prey, unwilling prey, belly kink, hilarious misuse of Gwyndolin, hard vore, soft(ish) vore, long overwrought sentences, and of course the lewd tube dude himself. But hey, nothing actually corresponding to any meaningful use of the term “sexy”.

Aldrich panted through the Dark Sun’s throat. The dead god’s body slumped back in a throne in the bowels of the Cathedral, with Aldrich’s own mass joining it at the waist and trailing across the floor, weaving in and out of a throng of waiting faithful, littered with yet-undigested bones.

\--

The saint had initially planned to consume the god entirely and feel every scrap of flesh on the bones of Gwyn’s child disintegrate into him. But, while he had thoroughly enjoyed his languorous dismantling of the lower half of Gwyndolin and the sensation of his ichor feeding through the drained hollows of the god’s body, the intrusion that had disrupted his meal had changed his mind. It seemed to Aldrich, if another such annoyance were to arise – another undead bounty-hunter decimating his deacons and slaying his most useful agent – he would need to take matters into hands of his own.

Thankfully, he had taken his time with Gwyndolin. The Dark Sun’s hands, twisted though they were by Aldrich’s own flesh, were still capable of wielding the moonlight in Aldrich’s defense. It was a shame the interloper had died while not yet within him, but it was no trouble to him to modify Gwyndolin’s narrow jaw and tight throat to accept an impatient sacrifice. In fact, he’d found the change of pace very intriguing.

He returned to the Cathedral victorious, tracing, where he could find it, the trail of destruction left by his ill-fated pursuer. He practiced drawing breath as he moved, clearing a path through the god’s body for air to move into lungs, at least enough to rattle words from the widened throat. The voice that seeped forth was not quite Gwyndolin’s, nor was it the long-silent murmur of Aldrich himself. It was perfect.

Aldrich found his Cathedral bereft of the deacons who had elected to await his return. Other faithful, however, had replaced them, welcoming their saint with candles and incense and bowed heads. What a thrill, to see and smell their offerings after so long!

Of course, the real tributes had yet to be offered. He recalled the sensation of his pursuer traveling down a deliberately constructed throat and settling, if only for a moment, in the Dark Sun’s belly. The thought made Gwyndolin’s lips curl into a grin entirely foreign to the delicate face. Even after devouring the god, the journey back to his Cathedral had kindled his ever-present hunger into something roaring and unbridled.

The Saint of the Deep returned to his lair with his trophy proudly displayed, moving fluidly and with alarming speed through the dim halls, his followers melting out of the shadows to welcome their lord with awe and trepidation. Aldrich settled into a spacious hall already slick with temporarily detached slime-flesh, and spoke slowly to his reverers. “Bring forth your sacrifices to me.”

\--

Aldrich found no fewer sacrifices waiting to be devoured than he had expected. His worshipers turned them loose by the cartload into the room where Aldrich awaited them, easily overpowering those who tried to escape. The saint’s shifting flesh slid under their feet and snared their ankles, holding them in place. Some of them stared at the half-obscured face of the Dark Sun, arrested by its beauty even outsized and exaggeratedly gaunt as it was, or terrified by the unmistakably predatory set of its mouth as it responded to Aldrich’s emotions.

When Aldrich deemed the size of the offering suitable – larger than usual, even – he lunged barehanded at one of the cowering sacrifices, tearing into the undead man’s side with a mouth at least twice as big as it had been in life. Aldrich had earlier been unsurprised, but nonetheless disappointed with Gwyndolin’s blunt and unthreatening teeth, and had pushed up shards of shattered bone from his depths to replace them with an uneven, serrated set of tearing fangs. He found the aberration from Gwyndolin’s original form made much quicker work of his followers’ gifts than the god’s own teeth had of his adversary in Anor Londo. The taste of flowing blood and hot flesh on a more human tongue struck Aldrich with nostalgia.

Aldrich had admired the shape of Gwyndolin’s body as he subsumed it into him. It was so detailed in its definition, with such fascinating variation. Pale skin, grown paler with disease, flowed elegantly over the Dark Sun’s narrow skeleton; a million shimmering scales decorated the serpents that coiled and twisted beneath diaphanous fabric, as resplendent as the moon itself.

Such beauty shone too brightly for Aldrich’s taste. But something could be made of the open sores, the wasted frame, and, of course, the overwhelming power.

So Aldrich labored over Gwyndolin, building on the foundation of the god’s form until it was a strange statue of itself, bones cracked and stitched together, inefficient structures removed or replaced. He couldn’t truly claim to have devoured the Dark Sun until what remained of the god was reshaped by his flesh, fashioned into a being fit to bear the title of Devourer.

He moved the esophagus with undulations of his liquid body within the god, coaxing the destroyed sacrifices toward Gwyndolin’s belly, which Aldrich had patiently reconstructed and augmented with a patchwork of sacrificed flesh as they expired and digested until it could hold whole bodies long enough for the next to enter his mouth.

Perhaps it was atavistic to pine for the human form he’d lost so long ago, but it was all too natural to fear a formless, roiling demon, and Aldrich had so adored the terror of his colleagues and followers when they first saw how his gluttony affected what had been such an unassuming, familiar body. The sensation of distension, of forcing a normal, even pleasing human shape to consume so much more than it was meant to hold, was something the shifting Saint of the Deep had dearly missed.

The feeling was upon him now, the ache just as sweet as he remembered. He propelled himself with all of his mass, inexorably advancing on each of the trapped, despairing sacrifices, tearing their flesh with his new teeth and imprisoning their souls, one after the other. His faithful stood at the threshold, supplying him with an unending procession of the damned. With each death, the devout swayed and moaned as though they felt its acute pleasure.

\--

He didn’t realize how taxing the process of eating with a human mouth and throat was to him until he found himself still, breathing shallowly, blind to the input of Gwyndolin’s senses. Delicate, long-fingered hands traced independently over the grotesque belly that strained against carefully embroidered, defiled gauze.

Gwyndolin’s mouth – Aldrich’s mouth – hung open, the saint’s ichorous secretions pooling in it in place of saliva in response to the hunger that still coursed through him.

The faithful that accompanied him hesitated in their offerings, perceiving the uncharacteristic lapse in Aldrich’s gluttony. The worshipers seemed tired as well, some of them resting along the bases of the statues and candelabras that adorned the room. Aldrich had been eating for hours, his pace slowed by the Dark Sun’s unfamiliar anatomy, and still he was ravenous – he didn’t want to stop until every sacrifice that awaited him was devoured, its soul snuffed by his power. Nonetheless, after all this travel and exertion, he was losing confidence in his ability to continue his feasting without collapsing, leaving some doomed soul half-swallowed.

He collected himself, and drew up the god’s spine into an imperious posture. “How dare you leave me to hunt them like an animal.” He pronounced the words carefully, so his aching throat wouldn’t distort them. His faithful shrank back, ashamed of their saint’s rebuke.

Aldrich crossed the chamber, even the practiced slide of his Deep-blessed body weighted by the multitude of corpses within. He rested his monstrous revision of Gwyndolin’s upper half on a disused marble throne, bare of fabric, but reinforced enough to bear his weight. The length of Aldrich spilled over to the base of the throne and snaked across the floor, settling into a reclining attitude, merging partially with the ichor that flooded the room.

When his zealots approached the semi-liquid of his body, he addressed them. “I have devoured the Dark Sun, Gwyndolin. This body is a part of me, and belongs to the Deep. And you –” he paused, in part to catch his breath after so much physical exertion. A smile flickered on his blood-soaked face. “ – you have the precious opportunity to teach the mouth of this vanquished divinity the terms of its new role as the threshold of the Deep itself.” He bared the teeth he’d created, some recently replaced with more pleasing shapes, stroking his pale belly through its clothing, where the remains of the most recent sacrifices churned in Aldrich’s fluid in vain imitation of human digestion.

Aldrich raised one hand to beckon his faithful. “Feed me, then. Bring them here. With each paltry soul, the waters rise.”

The motley clerics collected their tributes and fell in line, directing the squirming bodies of the undead toward Gwyndolin’s mouth. Aldrich stretched it wide, snapping the jaw out of place. The bone-shard teeth and the hanging jaw befitted the saint.

A pair of worshipers, themselves well familiar with the killing of men, wrenched the arms of a sobbing sacrifice until her shoulder joints dislocated, and hoisted her up, head-first toward their insatiable lord. Aldrich contorted the god’s form to take her in, silencing her screaming with the walls of his body. The disfigured tines of the Dark Sun’s headdress scraped the stone that supported him as he tilted the god’s head back to consume her. She slid with uncommon ease into the slick interior of the saint, even as the faithful struggled to keep her legs still. Others among the devout drew blades and raised axes to dismember their tributes as they waited their turn.

Aldrich lingered over her, feeling her displace him as she shifted and sank, relishing the straining of Gwyndolin’s soft skin as though it were the Dark Sun consciously failing to prevent desecration. He felt her settle in the god’s belly, and deliberately asphyxiated her with his fluid flesh, wanting to harvest her skin to add to Gwyndolin’s.

The first sacrifice now wholly contained, Aldrich shifted, the pressure of a human body filled with flesh recalling old memories. “Feed me until I allow you to stop,” he commanded, his voice caught between Gwyndolin’s practiced authority and his own depraved eagerness. “This body does not need to pause for breath.”

Aldrich had no sooner finished speaking than the next follower obligingly pressed the raw end of a disembodied arm into his mouth, which Aldrich swallowed with sincere avarice. The limbless, yet still writhing body followed, its skin tearing on the edges of Aldrich’s teeth.

The worshipers established a rhythm of feeding and waiting as Aldrich pulled doomed flesh through the Dark Sun’s body. The saint devoted what physical energy remained in him to his subtle enlarging of Gwyndolin’s stomach and the imitation of peristalsis, enjoying a near-constant state of rapture as the sacrifices died within him. Some offered their tributes whole, giving Gwyndolin’s body ample opportunities to practice swallowing them as Aldrich did with such brutal efficiency.

Aldrich reached out with his inhuman mass as well, hearing the noise of cart wheels and cages still rattling in the corridors. He was certain that his absence had created enough of a surplus to allow him a little impatience with the untrained mouth and throat. His faithful knew his gluttony well, and kept clear of him, pushing their offerings toward him stripped nude so he could better distinguish anyone who might meet his grasp by accident.

Some daring ones reached out to lay hands on the Dark Sun’s midsection where it swelled with meat and bones. Aldrich allowed this, finding that it saved the effort of his own hands. How his faithful looked upon him in envy and devotion! How they understood the demands of his flesh! Some of them glanced in desire at the sacrifices they drove toward their saint, but restrained themselves admirably. There were certainly some accomplished devourers among them, but none near as prolific as Aldrich himself.

There were far more sacrifices than Aldrich had expected to encounter on his return. Gwyndolin’s body ached so, where it stretched to hold them, and even the ravenous black sludge that made up the rest of Aldrich struggled to contain the sheer volume of flesh offered to him. But he was caught up in hunger beyond mere want of food. He concentrated on keeping Gwyndolin’s mouth relaxed, on swallowing the meat his worshipers pushed into him with the tongue and the throat, even as he was distracted by ensnaring other bodies in amorphous flesh.

A venerator thrust a sobbing man into the saint’s mouth, legs first. Aldrich shifted in his seat and jerked his head out of reach, teeth driving into the sacrifice’s hips. He leaned his body forward, shuddering at the extravagant weight of it, and threw his head back, long nails scraping stone as his hands clutched the arms of the stone chair. The sacrifice twisted and flailed his own arms, and sank torturously slowly into Aldrich. He monitored his faithful as they stood or knelt, transfixed. Some raised their voices in awe.

When the ecstatic sensation of the body stretching his throat subsided, Aldrich lay a hand over the delicate neck, feeling it distort with the shape of the doomed man. He paused for a moment, allowing time for the body to settle in his stomach, breathing slowly to displace his own mass. He regarded the inhuman swell of his belly – his desecration of the Dark Sun was utter. Aldrich grinned, bloody teeth proudly bared, and drew the ichor that surrounded him closer. It pulled at the ankles of his faithful like an undertow and coalesced over the deliquescent bodies that tangled together in his shapeless interior.

Aldrich sank back against the throne, jaw slack. A lone worshiper approached him, rushing through the throng, scrambling up onto the arm of the throne. Aldrich turned his head toward him, watching from beneath the Dark Sun’s mask. The cleric’s fingers twisted into one another, shaken by nerves and passion.

“What sacrifice do you offer?” Aldrich’s breathing was shallow behind his words. He set his arm on the marble where the man stood, long and angular, as though to claim him. His voice sharpened. “Have you approached me with nothing?”

The man reached out, wild-eyed, vestments drawing back from withered arms. “O Saint,” came his breathless invocation. He carefully pressed his fingers against Aldrich’s parted lips. The devourer’s fingers closed around his waist, and his jaw opened wider. The cleric leaned forward, moved by passion, setting his hands carefully among Aldrich’s diabolic teeth and bearing down with all his weight to drive his head between their knife-points.

Aldrich was surprised – pleasantly – by the show of force. He lifted the enthralled cleric with both hands. Some of the worshipers called out, concerned or jealous. The man pulled himself in, his cries of ecstatic pain echoing through Aldrich’s mouth as teeth tore at clothing and skin.

The saint supported him, hands acting as platforms for the cleric’s knees and bare feet to press against as he moved ever deeper. Aldrich’s throat lay wide and dark before him, jerking slightly at the press of hands, the brush of hair and fabric. He crawled so desirously, powering his descent with mad haste.

Aldrich inclined his head and lifted his hands. The cleric folded one knee under his body, impaling it carelessly, indiscriminately on Aldrich’s teeth, desperate for more leverage against the devourer’s slick confines. The fine-featured face of the god distorted, mouth widening, tongue sliding. Aldrich fidgeted, leaning, drawing his chin up precipitously until the tines of the mask tapped the stone behind him. His hands were empty, the worshiper's feet slipping and pressing against the flat surfaces of his teeth. Even as the motion of Aldrich’s throat took hold of him entirely, the vain creature grasped and pushed, clearing the way for the sacrifices that remained.

The devout fell upon their saint with renewed urgency, proffering the limbs and wailing bodies of their sacrifices. Aldrich accepted them with abandon, leaving his body at the hands of his adoring followers. How his throat hurt! How the smooth skin stung where it stretched around his prey! They died in droves, torn apart by the bones of their predecessors, their souls burning at the edges of his mind.

\--

At length, the clerics found themselves empty-handed and shrank back from Aldrich’s groaning body. The devourer felt the last few sacrifices slide into him as a few unoccupied faithful stroked his tortured skin. The labored contractions of his throat felt natural again. The excruciating weight was so deliciously familiar.

Aldrich reclined, laying his cheek against one long, narrow hand. The other hand rested at the side of his belly, taking pleasure in the repurposed flesh, his debauched adaptation of the Dark Sun. “You have done so well,” he praised in a voice dark and resonant, yet frayed by his raw throat. “Truly a glorious celebration,” he purred, still short of breath, “of my recent accomplishment.” Aldrich was quietly amazed by his body’s capacity to hold meat. Even the formless bulk of him had swelled under the unrestrained force of his gluttony.

His body shifted, and he slid his fingertips under the chin of one large-bodied worshiper at his side. “For the moment, I am most pleased. But now it seems you have nothing left to feed me.” He moved as though to rise from his seat, but his flesh was entirely exhausted by his gorging. He could hardly move at all. “You have some time to redress this,” he hinted, leaning heavily against the throne. “But if I were you, I would make haste.” What could have been a beatific smile was tainted by dark blood and forbidding teeth.


End file.
